


another way to say goodbye

by arbhorwitch



Category: Big Hero 6 (2014)
Genre: #tattoosfixeverything, Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Tattoos, gogo is a badass and also the most compassionate friend you'll ever have, hiro is a sad panda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbhorwitch/pseuds/arbhorwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hiro gets his first tattoo when he's fifteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	another way to say goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> warning for needle mention and the tattoo process but i don't think it's too graphic (´ー｀)
> 
> ty cam for dealin' with me <333

It’s a year after Tadashi’s death that Hiro gets his first tattoo.

Wasabi is the one who helps him dig through Tadashi’s stuff left on his desk, a mess of papers and notes that Hiro will never have the heart to throw away. It takes them two hours and heavy nostalgia to find it, but it pays off: the original sketch for Tadashi’s chip, accompanied with the signature Hiro thought he’d never see again. It steals the breath right out of his lungs and he forgets how to breathe past the lump in his throat; Wasabi’s hand is on his back in an instant, talking him through it until Hiro can see past the spots in his vision. It hurts, _god_ it still hurts, but he’s working on it.

“You sure about this?” Wasabi asks, guiding him to Hiro’s bed with a frown. “It’s pretty permanent.”

“But it’s his,” Hiro murmurs, clutching the paper tightly in his hands. It’s not perfect, not as perfect as the actual chip, but it’s pretty fucking close. “I… It’s the best I’m gonna get.”

There’s a beat of silence and then Wasabi is smiling, rubbing a soothing hand over Hiro’s vertebrae. 

“I’m with you all the way, kid.”

*

Tadashi wasn’t much of a perfectionist, not nearly as much as Wasabi, but Hiro knew him better than anyone. Baymax was important to his brother, and the chip just as much so, so Hiro isn’t all that surprised that Tadashi had practiced the sketch before drawing it on the real thing. Hiro holds the chip in high regard, the ten thousand medical procedures and the hours of work and late nights spent high on caffeine poured into the code that keeps Hiro grounded, and this is the least he can do for Tadashi. If he were still here, he knows his brother would agree.

But that’s the point: Tadashi isn’t here and though it’s already been a year, the pain is still raw and awful, a wound that hasn’t quite healed.

When he explains to Cass what he wants to do, she gives him a watery smile and a tight hug.

“I need to know you’re getting it done safely,” she whispers into his hair, tears like acid on his skin. “I’m so, so proud of you, honey.”

He doesn’t cry, doesn’t do much except hug her back and pray for the strength to not back out, and it’s… enough.

*

Baymax lists the risks and talks him through it, updates his database on aftercare procedures and inquires the state of Hiro’s emotional well-being. Hiro assures him that it’s totally fine, that what he’s choosing to do will (probably) help immensely, and Baymax merely tilts his head and says, “I will do my best to ensure that it heals properly.”

Hiro isn’t sure what to say to that, so he settles for dragging Baymax downstairs to watch some horrible daytime soap opera while Cass is out grocery shopping.

For a while, he can pretend he’s thirteen and skipping class while Tadashi comments on the ludicrous nature of the drama playing out on the screen.

*

“My cousin does some sick work,” Gogo tells him three days later, adjusting the output on her bike with gum between her teeth. The lab is empty save for the two of them and Hiro has never been more grateful for Gogo’s presence. It’s been a rough week. “She’s good. Really good.”

Hiro chews his thumbnail for a few seconds, erases some of the more useless diagrams on his latest schematics for his robotics class. Gogo pauses, a furrow in her brows that has Hiro feeling vaguely guilty for reasons he’s not entirely sure of, and then she’s tugging him into a half-hug.

“It’s okay, you know,” she mutters, an awkward lilt to her words; she slips into Korean, sometimes, when they’re talking about nothing important, and he’ll fall back with Japanese in a subtle dedication to his decimated family, and he knows Gogo understands more than she’ll ever let on. “You’re allowed to grieve.”

Something about the way she says it breaks his heart and burrows somewhere in the hollow of his chest, an ache that burns him from the inside out, and he says weakly, “I just miss him so much sometimes. It’s—it fucking _sucks_.”

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have to, just holds him until his shoulders stop shaking long enough for him to wipe his snotty face on the rag she tosses at him. He’s not even sure how to face Tadashi’s grave, how to explain to a tombstone that nothing is the same, not really. He loves his friends, but there’s always that nagging voice in the back of his head that reminds him these friends were Tadashi’s first; he’ll never be his brother, and he’s not sure what hurts more.

“Saturday,” Hiro manages eventually, sniffling and wiping at his eyes. Gogo ruffles his hair and offers him a piece of gum; he takes it without a second thought. It’s watermelon flavoured, something new, and Hiro has the urge to cry all over again. He hands her the sketch and says, “Let’s do it Saturday.”

Gogo grins, wicked and supportive and utterly wonderful, and says, “I’ll call her tonight.”

*

Occasionally, he’ll see Tadashi in his dreams, always a few steps away; Hiro tries _so hard_ to reach forward, begs him to stay just a few extra seconds, but it’s never enough. It always ends in fire, a heat that swallows him whole and has him waking up shivering and so, so alone.

And then Baymax is there with his vinyl arms around Hiro, an attempt to calm him with soothing words, and Hiro thinks: it’s okay.

*

Cass wakes him up early Saturday morning to the smell of freshly baked cinnamon buns, the aroma a saving grace to Hiro’s jittery nerves, and she lets him dress in peace while icing the baked goods with fresh cream cheese. It’s one of Hiro’s favourites, and he loves her so much, the small gesture easing the anxiety blossoming in his chest.

“You’re sure about this,” Cass triple-checks, and Hiro nods with a tight smile, his fingers tapping out a steady rhythm of binary on the kitchen table. Gogo will be there in twenty minutes and the paper Gogo gave him back two days ago weighs heavy in Hiro’s pocket, a reminder that he can’t, _can’t_ back out of this. It’s more than just a tattoo; it’s the last thread he has of his brother, his last grip on this strange reality, and he’s tired. Tired of the grief, tired of the way his heart clenches every time he so much as _thinks_ about Tadashi. They’ve all moved on in their own ways—it’s his turn.

“Hiro,” Cass begins, reaching forward to grip his hand. She has her hair tucked behind her ear, has the wisdom stone necklace around her neck, and the nostalgia is killing him. “I love you, baby. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” he chokes out; he won’t have a panic attack, not now, but he can’t deny that he’s terrified of drowning.  

*

“Most fifteen-year-olds can’t get permission from their parents,” the artist jokes, and Hiro can’t help but like her. She looks almost nothing like Gogo except for the curve of her smile and the sway of her hips, yet there’s something about her that’s oddly familiar, a comfort to his shot-to-hell nerves.

“Most fifteen-year-olds aren’t Hiro,” Cass teases, kissing his forehead and winding her arm around Hiro’s shoulders. Hiro doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed; he has a feeling Gogo has already explained his situation. “He has my full permission.”

They sign some papers and she leads Hiro to the back with a smile, Gogo on his right for support and Cass taking a seat near the back; Hiro shrugs out of his t-shirt and hands it to his aunt for safety before settling into the black chair and reminding himself that air has to make it through his lungs for breathing to be effective.

“It’s gonna be cold,” she warns, easing the sketch over his breastbone. Her hands are gentle and cool as she peels off the paper and gives Hiro a moment to decide whether or not it’s in the right spot.

For a split second, he sees Tadashi hunched over his desk with a determined frown on his lips, the messy hair and untucked shirt and exhausted bruises beneath his eyes. It’s a straight punch to his gut, this sensation of overwhelming grief, and Gogo grabs his hand and _squeezes_. It’s painful and exactly what he needs.

“It’s perfect,” he manages with a shaky smile, fingers locked with Gogo’s so tightly he’s afraid he might break.

*

He loses track of the time, keeps his heartbeat in time with the sound of the needle, and Gogo only leaves his side once to fetch him a bottle of water and some soda crackers. It’s not a big undertaking, as the icon itself is actually fairly small, but the details are key and he needs it to be perfect. The artist—Min, she tells him, a nickname from Gogo herself—asks him all sorts of questions about it, yet phrases them in a way that puts him under no obligation to actually answer.

It’s easier than he expects.

“My brother drew it,” he explains quietly, grimacing at a particularly painful glide. “That’s… that’s his signature. His name is—was—Tadashi.”

She hums sadly, offering him a smile, and he knows that Gogo has already told her about his brother. Regardless, she says, “It must have a lot of meaning then.”

He nods, the knot between his rib bones uncurling the smallest amount.

“I miss him,” he admits, counting the bumps in the ceiling tiles. He’s incredibly grateful that Gogo doesn’t call him out on the pressure building behind his eyes.

They fall into a comfortable silence and Hiro lets his mind wander.

*

The finished product ends up being beyond his wildest imagination, a sort of itchy burn where Tadashi’s art is drawn into his skin, and Hiro swallows thickly before breathing out a feeble, “Thank you. I—this is perfect.”

He means it, can’t help but stare at the simplicity of the doodle, the makeshift doctor and the breezy signature etched below; it spans about the size of his heart, a stark black against the paleness of his skin, and it takes all of his willpower not to break down. It’s the finality of it, a refusal to wallow any longer, and it makes a home in the cage of his chest and lets him breathe a little bit easier past the misery coiled in the depths of his lungs. It’s Tadashi, it’s his _brother_ , a last testament that keeps him from suffocating.

“Tell me the truth,” Min says sternly, hands on his shoulders to help keep him upright. “Is there anything—“

“No,” he interrupts firmly, briefly touching the edge of the signature. “No, this is absolutely perfect. Thank you, honestly.”

Min seems satisfied and smiles down at him; Gogo looks as if she’s never been prouder, and Cass is on the verge of tears herself, hands clapped over her mouth to keep her steady. Hiro exhales a hesitant laugh and a look of relief with her, a sort of euphoria flooding his veins, and maybe, maybe it’s not so bad, this tragedy of theirs.

Hiro has a lot of regrets; this will never be one of them.

*

“It’s an antibacterial cream I designed myself,” Honey tells him, handing him a small bottle filled with a milk-white liquid. Gogo had offered to take him back to the lab, the gang all eager to see his new tattoo, and Hiro’s not entirely surprised that Honey has concocted something like this.

“She has three tattoos,” Gogo mutters, throwing herself onto the couch and stretching out her arms. Wasabi is the one who ends up smoothing out a fresh bandage, easing it over Hiro’s irritated flesh. “She made that stuff back in freshman year.”

“It works,” Fred assures, high-fiving a slightly embarrassed Honey Lemon. “She made some for me a few years ago and it was _awesome_. Super handy. Expect it to heal within a week.”

“Thanks, Honey,” Hiro says sincerely, pocketing the bottle and slipping back into his shirt. It’s surreal, the way his skin stretches as he moves, the permanent reminder that his brother rests over his heart; he’s never been one for sentiment, but this is the best kind of healing.

“It’s really well done,” Wasabi says, and Honey nods her agreement. “Tadashi would be proud.”

“How do you feel, little dude?” Fred asks, catching his attention with a genuine smile. Hiro grins in return, feels the unravelling of heartache in the pit of his stomach.

It could be a lot worse; it could be a lot better. His brother could be here, could be studying with them and teaching Hiro the tricks of college life, the early mornings and late nights that intertwine with each other. He _should_ be here, should be standing with his friends and drinking terrible coffee, should be graduating near the top of his class with honors, with decades ahead of him, with _Hiro._

He should be, but he isn’t, and it doesn’t hurt nearly as much when Hiro says, “I’m okay.”

(and for the first time in a year, for the first time since his life fell apart and pieced itself back together, hiro believes it.)

**Author's Note:**

> [♥](http://arbhorwitch.tumblr.com)


End file.
